


Or, You Could Always Google It

by prosciutto



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fans & Fandom, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, YouTube
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-08-12 21:01:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7949041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prosciutto/pseuds/prosciutto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You know,” Bellamy muses, grin wide and a little conspiratorial, “you’re robbing our legions of fans here. They’re expecting a showdown and you’re being perfectly cordial towards me.”</p><p>“Right,” she nods, pursing her lips to keep from smiling. “Well, it’s not too late. I could always pitch that glass of water down your shirt.”</p><p>Someone really should have warned Clarke that the first step to becoming internet famous would involve acquiring a nemesis. (Or, Bellarke as rival YouTubers, basically.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Or, You Could Always Google It

**Author's Note:**

> In honor of the latest con that occured today, which was delightfully drama free and featured my son bob morley looking fine as hell in new glasses. I love him.

_______________________________

The thing is, it’s not like Clarke made a conscious decision to start making YouTube videos. 

It starts- like most things do when you’re in college, really- with a bad grade and a whole lot of tequila. Her sophomore year had brought about a full course load along with one misogynistic, stick-up-his-butt professor, and when he had actually failed her for one of her assignments, she had done what every level-headed, reasonable adult would do.

Which is to take it to the Internet,  _ obviously. _

Her drunken rant and quasi-tutorial recreating her failed assignment garnered over a hundred thousand views within a few hours, and it wasn’t long before the subscribers came along with requests for DIY tutorials, followed by YouTube approaching her to be a partner; which meant that she was actually getting  _ paid  _ to produce her grainy, low-budget videos on how to press flowers or demonstrating ways to get the perfect sashiko stitch.

It’s not the most secure or viable of career options (as her mother constantly likes to remind her) but it pays the bills and for her books, too, plus it’s not exactly hardship when it’s something she actually loves. The hours are flexible, production costs are low, and she’ll (willfully) admit that the recognition is really doing wonders for her ego.

So, yeah, it  _ definitely _ stings when she receives her first piece of hate mail of sorts.

Raven’s the first one to tell her about it, through a cryptic  _ have you seen this??  _ text with a video link attached, the blurry thumbnail pictured almost undecipherable except for what looked like a guy holding up the mangled remains of a napkin. She’s almost tempted to skip it (Raven’s known for sending her one of those jump-scare videos) but curiosity wins out in the end anyway and she finds herself booting up the video.

Objectively, the guy in the video is pretty attractive, all bronzed skin and mussed hair that she thinks would be nice to run her fingers through. His smile is blindingly white when he flashes one at the camera, all easy charm and relaxed confidence that Clarke just  _ knows  _ she’ll never be able to achieve.

With a purse of her lips, she rests back against her chair, waits.

“Hey guys,” he begins, leaning closer in view. “So I’ve been going through the comments, looking for ideas for what to do in my next video and it turns out that there’s an overwhelming number of you who really want me to try out some pinterest tutorials.”

There’s an obligatory, expectant pause, as if he was  _ waiting  _ for people to break out in applause. She resists the urge to roll her eyes.

“So, here we are.” He continues, his fingers tapping out an idle rhythm against the tabletop. “I should warn you guys that I’m generally terrible at this crafts shit, but that’s what these people are here for, right? If I’m not a pulling Martha Stewart quality stuff after this, you know who to blame.”

Letting loose a dismissive scoff, she toggles her mouse, tries not to appear too disgruntled when she realizes that he has a considerable amount of subscribers as well. Maybe there were a lot of people into the whole smarmy, slick act after all. There was no accounting for taste on the Internet anyway.

Clarke’s considering looking up his profile ( _ bellamythos _ , of all things) when she hears it, snapping her attention back to the screen at hand and nearly dislodging her feet from its perch in the process.

“So the first tutorial we’re going to try is this one by  _ princesspaints _ .” There’s a note of derision in his voice that makes her bristle, her mouth instinctively twisting to scowl at him. “And uh, I’m not sure when I’ll ever need a brushstroke dyed napkin, but I’ll send her a thank you card when the need arises.”

“Jerk!” She hisses, reaching out to hit the fullscreen button despite herself.

And it’s jarring, really, watching him watch  _ her,  _ his movements clumsy and awkward, commentary peppered with the occasional curse word and several other grudging complaints. Honestly, she would even find it a little funny if it wasn’t  _ her  _ video that was being critiqued at the moment, all snarky remarks and jibes as he fumbles his way through the steps.

“Okay,” he says, grimacing, his hands splattered with pink paint and held comically away from his face. “Suffice to say,  _ princesspaints  _ didn’t exactly make a convert out of me. I would hardly think that this is a accessible, made-for-everyone sort of tutorial, you know?”

Gaping, she pegs the screen with the remains of her popcorn kernels, face  _ burning _ . “Or maybe you’re just an incompetent asshole!”

He barrels on, oblivious to her outburst. “Anyway, that was a grade A failure. Like, I honestly wouldn’t recommend anyone else to try out this tutorial unless you’re a art major or if you have a background in butchering napkins, I don’t know.”

“Butchering.” She echoes, still in a state of disbelief. “ _ Butchering? _ ”

“ — But until then! Thanks for watching you guys, and tune in next week to see what I get up to.”

“It’s not butchering when it can be used as a artful table setting!” She yells, giving a snarl of frustration when autoplay launches straight into his next video instead; the low cadence of his voice filling the room and making her swear.

Reaching for her phone, she jabs furiously at the keyboard instead, managing a glimpse of her twitter account (more concerned folks tweeting the video link to her) before she finally locates Raven’s number after her third attempt.

“You got around to watching the video,” Raven says, as a way of greeting.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she retorts, working to keep the note of hysteria out of her voice. “What do  _ you  _ think?”

“Honestly? I don’t think it’s all that bad.”

“Not— not all  _ that _ bad?” she sputters, dropping her palms down against her thighs with dramatic flourish, “He called me a failure! And on top of that, he said that I butchered a napkin!”

Raven gives a weary, long-suffering sigh. “The video. He meant that the video was kind of a fail.”

“Like that’s any better.” She snorts, jerking to her feet so she could pace to her satisfaction. “It was  _ insulting.  _ And pointless! I don’t even know this guy, and he sets out to humiliate me?”

A beat passes, the only sound being the tap of Raven’s keyboard in the background, before she goes, apprehensive, “I don’t know. Aren’t you taking it a little personally? I thought you would find it fucking hysterical.”

“Hysterically bad, that’s what.” She tells her, running a palm over her face and sinking back into her seat. “I mean, I recognize that I’m overreacting a little. But what am I supposed to do about this? People are tagging me on twitter with this video link and hashtagging it _ouch_.”

That, at least, gets a cackle out of her. “No fucking way.”

“I wish I was joking.” She says darkly, slamming her laptop shut so she wouldn’t have to look at  _ bellamythos’s  _ smug, staring face any longer. “Should I call him out on it? Send him a message or something?”

“You’re not going to like what I suggest.” Raven tells her, flat.

“ _ No. _ ” Clarke groans, the sound muffled when she buries her face in her hands.

“Yes.” She goes, insistent, “Honestly, what’s the point in dwelling on it? It’s no big deal. It’ll go away if you just leave it alone.”

There’s a small scuff mark on her laptop that she directs her attention to instead, working at it with the edge of her fingernail while she mulls over Raven’s suggestion, the thought of just  _ leaving  _ it be curdling unpleasantly against her stomach.

“You’re probably right,” she mumbles, after some consideration. “I mean, I don’t  _ like  _ it but you’re right.”

Her sigh of relief is faint amongst all the background noise, but she doesn’t miss it either. “Well,” Raven says baldly, “that’s what I’m here for, right? To talk you off ledges and tell you when I’m right. Which is all the time.”

Taking a deep breath, she swings her laptop open again, cancelling the offending window in question. “There was that one time you fixed my iPod, too.”

“ _ And  _ your car.”

“And my car.” Clarke agrees, reluctantly pulling up her pinterest page. “Anyway, I should go. We’re shooting tomorrow and I’m nowhere near prepared.”

She hums her response, quiet and even, then with uncharacteristic gentleness, “I could come over if you want, you know. We could watch movies. Binge on ice cream.” Then, an afterthought of sorts, “Pin  _ bellamythos’s  _ picture to a dartboard and practice our aim.”

Biting back a laugh, she shifts her phone to the crook of her neck instead. “Nah, I’m good. Plus, don’t you have that report to hand in that’s due tomorrow morning?”

“Semantics.” Raven goes, dismissive, before continuing, “Just promise me you won’t obsess about this all night? Or at all? Just go to bed and focus on tomorrow’s shoot.”

Nodding absentmindedly to herself, she jerks her mouse away from her favorite search bar, pulls up her bookmarks instead. “Yeah, Rae. I promise.”

 

+

Her willpower lasts all the way to dinner time, when her lone, wilting salad from the convenience mart a block down starts losing its appeal. 

It turns out that  _ bellamythos  _ goes by Bellamy- Bellamy Blake, to be exact, as stated on his Wikipedia page- and that he started producing YouTube videos about a year back, fresh out of college and all while working three other jobs. His early videos were reviews, mostly, all low-resolution and shaky clips of him trouncing the latest blockbuster movie or giving his opinion on certain books.

They’re rambly, running a little too long and unpolished too, but even she has to admit that there’s a certain amount of charm to them, to _him_ , that makes her want to sit up and pay attention to what he has to say.

It’s the charisma, she concludes grudgingly, clicking out of the fourth consecutive video she’s watched. The passionate cycling of his fingers as he made a point, the innocuous head tilt, the stupid,  _ beseeching _ gaze. He had this way about him, unbridled and infectious and fun, a force of nature. You  _ wanted  _ him to like you.

“Asshole,” She mutters, closing the window of him making an impassioned speech about the importance of intersectionality (his opinion on it is frighteningly similar to her own, not that she’d admit it under any circumstance).

His Twitter and Instagram pages have a lot less activity, just retweets of news sites and a few blurry close-ups of him and what seems to be his sister, according to the comments. It’s scant for a supposed YouTube personality, and she skims them quickly before eventually finding herself back on his videos page, her mouse poised over his next series of videos.

Well. It’s not like one more video would hurt, right?

Defiantly, she lurches forward to press play on the next one before settling back to watch.

 

+

Staying up late to spite-watch his videos proves to be a  _ terrible  _ life decision, considering she has filming to do the very next day with Wells who is notorious for being stupidly punctual about everything.

To his credit, he doesn’t say anything about her pyjama clad state when she fetches him at the door, just sighs. “At least tell me you laid out the tutorial props yesterday?”

“I laid out the tutorial props yesterday.” She says dutifully, before shuffling off to brew herself a cup of coffee.

He has the cameras set up and positioned by the time she’s showered and dressed, languidly drinking from his mug (that she leaves out for him because he’s the only one in their friend group who prefers green tea) and thumbing through the paper, completely at ease despite the ungodly hour.  _ Honestly _ , she thinks, slumping against the wall carelessly. She would be annoyed at how put-together Wells is all the time if it wasn’t for the fact that she had years to get used to it already.

“G’morning,” Wells goes, mild, upon noticing her. “You good? Or do you need two more cups before we kick things off?”

Shrugging, she lifts herself off the door frame. “Maybe just one more?”

“Sometime I worry that I’m just fuelling your addiction.” He mutters before ducking into the kitchen, rinsing her mug and topping it off in a single, fluid motion. “I take it you didn’t sleep so well last night?”

“I slept _ fine _ .” She says, just to be stubborn, before downing the coffee in a single gulp. “I’m good to go now if you are.”

It’s a pretty standard tutorial in her opinion- explaining and demonstrating shibori tie dye- mindless and easy enough that she finds her thoughts wandering after a while, unwillingly going back to Bellamy Blake and just fucking stewing about it, really, because she can’t believe that he got to her  _ that  _ easily. And that he’s getting away with it, too. If there was any karmic justice in the world (and if Clarke had any say about it), Bellamy Blake would be getting pigeon-pooped on right this second. _ Multiple _ times, to be exact.

“You okay?” Wells asks, once they’ve wrapped up and he has the necessary files uploaded onto his laptop. “You seemed a little… tense during the recording. Kind of antsy.”

Grimacing, she flops down next to him on the sofa, resting her head against his shoulder. “Shit. I got all mad thinking about certain stuff. It totally shows, doesn’t it?”

“It just feels a  _ little _ passive-aggressive.” He says, with as much tact he can muster. “I could try editing out some of the clips, if you want, but it’s a pretty huge chunk.”

“No, no.” She insists, the words dropping off into a yawn as she gets more comfortable, tucking her legs under his so they’re nice and warm. “I don’t want you wasting all your time either. Just edit it like how you normally would and upload it? I know you have to get to work soon anyway.”

Clarke senses his hesitance even with her eyes closed, but it’s hard to care when she’s content and sleepy, loose-limbed and seconds away from going under, his voice sounding muffled and dreamy to her ears.

“Are you sure?” He goes, his fingers tapping out a rhythmic beat against his trackpad. “I can always give my supervisor the whole traffic-was-really-bad line.”

“I’m sure.” She mumbles, fumbling for the afghan draped over the couch until he relents and drapes it over her shoulders. “Lock the door after you’re done, yeah?”

The only reply she registers is the rumble of his chest before she’s out for the count, falling into a heavy, dreamless sleep for what feels like hours until the the persistent chime of her laptop finally pulls her out of it, the consistent  _ chirping  _ forcing her to a seated position so she can squint at the blinding light of her laptop screen.

It’s a little hard to concentrate with her sleep-addled brain, but she recognizes Wells’s familiar scrawl on a post-it note- chiding her about not getting enough sleep and about having the video uploaded- before she’s yanking it off, dropping it onto the empty mug he left behind.

He left her YouTube page open on the screen, and she glances cursorily at the comments and likes before switching over to the source of all the noise from before: her twitter notifications.

There’s a lot of the usual, really, customary  _ I loved your new tutorial  _ comments and  _ show me ur boobs  _ but most of them are overshadowed by a large number of them referencing some sort of incident she can’t quite figure out, decidedly cryptic especially in her current state.

 

**@trufflewaffle9207:** holy shit @bellamythos have you seen this yet??

**@cousincrayon02:** you go girl!!!

**@llamalover:** this has to be the greatest clapback since the beginning of youtube

**@enchantinglytiff568:** wait, who is she directing this to???

**@girlsugarxoxo934:** #ppendedbellamythosparty

 

Swearing under her breath, she scrambles for her phone, finds it sequestered between two sofa cushions before bringing up her missed calls page, jabbing at the screen clumsily until it dials out to Raven.

It rings for all of five seconds before she picks up, the frosty silence on the other end followed by a sudden burst of static that makes her wince.

Bracingly, she goes, “Hi?”

“So hey, how did telling you to  _ let it go  _ translate to you not-so-subtly trashing  _ bellamythos _ on one of your videos?” Raven demands, sounding aggressively chipper despite everything. “I mean, I’m not sure what wires we crossed or something in that conversation, because it’s a fucking humongous leap you made there, Clarke.”

“I didn’t do it!” She says reflexively, before correcting herself. “Well, at least I didn’t mean to, or anything. I can’t help that there was where my head was at when I was filming.”

Raven gives a impatient, distinctly annoyed huff at that. “I’m going to murder Wells when he gets back.”

“Don’t,” Clarke sighs, hovering her mouse over the link to the aforementioned video. “Just— how bad is it, on a scale of one to ten?”

“Uhm, at one point, you sort of insinuated that he may be lacking in sexual prowess because he doesn’t seem like the type who knows what to do with his hands.”

“ _ What _ ?” she squawks, shoving her phone against the crook of her neck so she could wipe at her sweaty palms. “Oh my god,  _ what _ ?”

There’s a brief pause on the line before a voice comes back on, tinny and crackly but recognizably hers, “—Wrap the fabric around the plastic PVC pipe, and yeah, make sure it’s snug? I know that might be a little difficult for  _ some  _ of you to comprehend out there, like generally if you’re inept with your hands, but hey! Don’t blame your shortcomings on other people, you know? That’s on you. You’re just going to have to live with it.”

The phone clatters onto the floor at some point when she buries her face in a pillow to muffle a scream, and distantly, she recognizes that Raven is saying something but she can’t quite seem to summon the energy to grab at her phone yet.

Groaning, she taps the speaker option with her toe instead.

“— Not going to lie and say it’s not  _ bad,  _ but it’s salvageable, okay? We’ll figure something out. Just sit on it for now while I think of something.”

“Maybe I could just delete myself off the Internet and disappear.”

“You can’t if you won’t give me the links to all your past twilight fanfiction.” Raven quips, and somehow, that alone makes her feel marginally better. Marginally.

“So, what?” she asks, settling for picking at her cuticles instead of looking at the still-blinking laptop. “Just don’t say anything for now?”

“For now.” Raven agrees, her voice taking on that certain tone which Clarke knows means that she’s all business, “Maybe get off the Internet for a few hours? Binge on netflix. Paint. Just don’t go online.”

Sighing, she eases her laptop shut, flicks on her TV instead. “Aye aye, captain.”

“Make a sandwich every time you feel the urge to check one of your accounts.”

“Solid advice,” she muses, sinking back into the warmth of her cushions. Maybe if she wished hard enough, she could disappear in them. “Ever thought of becoming a life coach?”

That, at least, gets an amused chuckle out of her. “For you? Well, I’ll think about it.”

Smiling a little to herself, she settles for the food network, dropping the remote back onto her lap. “That’s all I’m asking for, really.”

“Bye,” Raven sing-songs before hanging up, leaving her alone with only her thoughts (and the muted sound of  _ Chopped _ playing in the background) to distract her.

 

\+ 

Practicality wins out in the end, when the incessant buzzing of her phone finally prompts her to pick it up and actually start going through some of her messages to see if there are any in need of an urgent response ( _ Wells: I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about your internet nemesis!!, mom: call me, Lincoln: I’m pretty sure I’ve seen that guy in my gym)  _ and the plan was to put it away after finding none whatsoever,  _ really; _ but then her eye catches on the twitter DM notification hovering at the top of her phone, and she’s opening it up before she can second guess herself. 

 

**@bellamythos:** You know, you didn’t have to go to such lengths to get my attention, princess. Consider it garnered. 

 

Her offended gasp is especially loud in the quiet of the room, a involuntary flush crawling up her neck upon her second re-read. He had the nerve, the  _ audacity _ —

 

**@princesspaints:** First of all, my name isn’t princess, it’s  _ Clarke.  _ Secondly, I apologize if my video has offended you- but as the Trojans like to say to the Greeks-  _ you  _ started it. Thirdly, I think it would be best if we had minimal (read: no) further contact with one another from this point onward, don’t you? 

 

Satisfied with that, she hits send, loping to her feet to grab a bottle of wine to calm her nerves. No doubt Raven would flip her shit if she found out but there was a grim sense of satisfaction to be gleaned from not having to be the bigger person all the time. Plus, if anyone deserved that treatment, it was Bellamy Blake. 

Her laptop gives yet another infuriating chirp once she’s settled back down on the sofa with her open bottle of wine, and she summons up the window once more with a pointed click against her trackpad.

 

**@bellamythos:** Wow, see, I thought the whole prim princess thing was a farce designed to attract more viewers, but that’s how you  _ actually _ are. 

**@bellamythos:** Anyway. I digress.

**@bellamythos:** Contrary to popular belief, I didn’t ‘start’ anything. It’s not my fault you’re so incredibly insulted by my earlier video in question. It wasn’t personal, much unlike the video you just released four hours back.

**@bellamythos:** p.s technically, the greeks would be saying that to the trojans considering Paris (a trojan prince, fyi) was the one who started the whole thing off.

**@bellamythos:** p.p.s Ha.

 

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” She announces, seething, her fingers already curling around the neck of the bottle so she could chug it back. “Fucking— asshole! And a double texter! Who does that?  _ Who _ ?” 

Casting the last of her diplomacy (not that she had much to begin with) to the wind, she poises herself over her keyboard, tapping out the best, most cutting response she can summon under the circumstances.

 

**@princesspaints:** So you’re saying that you wouldn’t be insulted if someone were to take one of your videos, critique it, and then proceed to make a complete mockery of it? Your ego must be something else all together. Though, really, I’m not surprised considering you have a whole series of videos where you laugh at people for being bad at video games. Get a life.

 

Frowning, she discards the now empty bottle of wine, leaning back into her seat as she waits for his reply, feeling pleasantly buzzed and aggravated all at once. (It’s not exactly the greatest of combinations).

It takes even lesser time than before for his next message to appear in her inbox, and she lurches forward so quickly she nearly upends her entire laptop.

 

**@bellamythos:** Is that a challenge, princess?

 

“How did you even  _ interpret  _ that as a challenge?” she scoffs, before reaching over to type out exactly that, ignoring her phone that is currently buzzing with an incoming call from Raven. She’ll deal with her later, once the exhilaration from this entire exchange has leeched out of her veins and she’s feeling like herself again. 

Clarke jumps a little when his reply comes in this time, thrown by the efficacy of the response.

 

**@bellamythos:** Anything can be a considered a challenge if you don’t study it for too long. 

**@bellamythos:** By the way. It’s late. Check back here tomorrow, princess. Might have a surprise for you.

 

And maybe it’s the alcohol rushing through her, or the adrenaline going to her head, but she finds herself asking an empty room anyway, “Shit, wait. Are you flirting with me?” 

The only answer she gets is the blare of her TV, the roar of a crowd to some sporting event she stopped paying attention to hours back, the reedy voice of the announcer declaring, “By George, I think she’s got it!”

(Maybe the universe is trying to tell her something.)

 

+

It arrives, like clockwork, in her inbox the very next day. 

Raven- who arrived sometime last night after she finally called back- is being a lot more blasé about this than she is, but then again, she tends to handle things better even with the lack of caffeine in her system. (Clarke, unfortunately, doesn’t have that skill set.)

“I don’t see what the big deal is,” she says, nonchalant, bracing herself up on her elbows. “What’s the worst that could happen? It could just be a dick pic.”

Glaring at her laptop screen, she hovers her mouse over it tentatively, dares herself to just  _ click  _ it already. “Trust me, he doesn’t seem like the sort. He’s trying to get to me, but he’ll do it in a smart way, you know? He’s  _ that  _ type.”

“Ah,” Raven goes, nodding sagely despite the telltale twitch around the corners of her mouth. “Right. Which you managed to figure out through your long, weirdly personal message session with him. That didn’t seem all that necessary in the first place.”

“It was!” She yelps, rubbing at her temples to stave away the migraine that seems to started up amidst all the chaos. “Whatever. He started it anyway.”

The knowing smile Clarke gets in response isn’t comforting in the slightest. “Yeah, okay,” Raven sighs, rolling back onto her back, “just grow a pair and load it now, won’t you? It’ll be a good source of morning entertainment. Might get me off my feet.”

“Nice to know that all this anguish I’m facing is keeping you awake and interested.”

“It’s the only thing that does it for me now.” She says, throwing in a melodramatic pout to boot. “Please?”

“You’re fixing my laptop if it turns out to be a virus.” Clarke mutters, opening up the link in a new tab.

It takes her to his YouTube page- which she’s really not all that surprised about- and to his latest video, titled a cryptic,  _ announcements and happenings,  _ flickering into view just as she puts it into full screen.

“Hey guys,” he says, voice warm and rich but with an undercurrent of sardonic amusement that had caught her attention in the first place, “so I know this is probably a little random, but I had a couple of important announcements to make today, hence the video.”

That gets a snicker out of Raven. “Is he always that melodramatic?”

“He makes it a lifegoal.” She replies dryly. “Hey, you think he’s going to publically denounce me on his channel so his fangirls will come after me?”

“Possibility.” She says, sombre, though the playful wiggle of her eyebrows gives her away.

“First things first,” Bellamy continues, “many of you have been wondering if I’ll be attending Vidcon, and the short answer is yes, I will be. I’m going to be there for the three whole days too, so you guys don’t have to worry about having a pass for only a certain day or what not.”

Raven nudges her in the ribs, hard. “So will you.”

“It’s a big place.” She retorts, trying to ignore the sudden spike of her pulse. Nerves, she reasons. “I guarantee you that we won’t even run into each other.”

Pointedly ignoring Raven’s mumbled  _ you wish,  _ she focuses on the screen instead, raising the volume of the video.

“So that’s one thing crossed off the agenda. On to the next.” He goes, lips quirking upwards slightly as he addresses the camera head-on; the smallest of smirks that sends a rush of foreboding through her. “I’m going to be introducing a new video series this month that I hope you guys will like, judging from the popularity of my last one.”

_ Oh my god,  _ she means to say, choking mid-word on her breath instead and dissolving into a series of hacking coughs—

“—So I’m going to be trying out every single one of  _ princesspaints _ tutorials for the next few weeks and posting up the video on Fridays. It’ll be fun, right? Plus I think she’ll appreciate seeing me getting my hands dirty every now and then.”

“Damn,” Raven says, and there’s something akin to admiration in his voice. “That guy has  _ balls _ .”

“That guy is a certifiable dick!” Clarke sputters, flushing scarlet at the sly wink he shoots at the camera, the smug little wave, “I’m going to hunt him down and drag him back here in a body bag!”

“Okay, but I don’t think I can actually spin murder into something positive on your resume.”

“You’ll figure something out.” She snaps back with a huff, crossing her arms over her chest. “You can’t expect me not to retaliate after this, right?”

“Nah.” Raven laughs, getting to her feet. “Go crazy, babe. I’ll make us coffee in the meantime.”

“You’re the best,” she beams, squeezing at her wrist lightly before directing her attention back to the screen, pulling up her twitter DMs.

 

**@princesspaints:** I would say that what you just did was a low blow, but I’m hardly surprised.

 

Leaning back on her perch, she picks at the fraying thread hanging from her sweatshirt, waits. (At this point, Clarke’s not all that sure if it was the lack of coffee  _ or _ a response that was making her antsy.)

Her laptop chirps a beat later and she straightens in her seat, tapping at the tab to reopen the window.

 

**@bellamythos:** Like I said, I really thought you’d appreciate seeing me get my hands dirty. You mention them a awful lot in your earlier video. 

**@bellamythos:** I’d see it as a compliment, if I were you. I’m bringing you a lot more viewers, aren’t I?

 

Scowling, she clicks at her subscribers tab, feeling a twinge of annoyance at the increased number flashing on her screen. The difference is stark, considering she wasn’t in the six figures range until a few hours ago. 

Exhaling the tension out of her body, she rolls out her shoulders, poises her fingers over the keyboard.

 

**@princesspaints:** I hope you’re not holding your breath waiting for a thank you, because you’re not getting one from me. And I also hope you know that I’m certainly not going to take this lying down. 

 

His reply is instantaneous, almost as if he had already expected what she was going to say.

 

**@bellamythos:** I, certainly, did not expect any less. Looking forward to see what you come up with, x. 

 

“You better.” She mutters despite herself, biting back the small smile threatening to show on her face. The migraine from a few minutes ago seems to have dissipated anyway, and it’s with unusually good cheer that she summons up his YouTube channel, going through his videos carefully.

“So,” Raven asks, flopping down on the couch next to her and offering her a mug of steaming hot coffee, “what’s your masterplan?”

Humming, she pulls up one of his older videos; no flashy effects, no camera work whatsoever, just him, talking. “Depends. Is Wells at work right now or do you think he could come over and help me film a little something?”

 

+

“Hi, it’s princesspaints, or Clarke, as some of you may know me. Now I know that most of my followers are here to watch me come up with DIY tutorials, and you know, my art stuff, but I just thought I’d try something a little different here today. As you all know, my good friend  _ bellamythos  _ is doing a series of videos on my stuff, so I just thought I’d reciprocate, you know? The link below is an old video of his, where he’s talking about the pride and prejudice 2005 reboot, and clearly he’s _ wrong  _ about a lot of things because, see here,  _ my  _ opinion is that—”

 

+

Twitter goes absolutely  _ crazy  _ after she uploads the video, and she makes sure to tag him in it before turning off her notifications entirely. 

“I won’t be surprised if your ticket sales to VidCon increases exponentially after this.” Wells points out, relegated to scrolling through Twitter on Raven’s phone after the discovery that he wasn’t using a motorola flip phone to be ironic. (And, yes, that it was the only phone he owned.) “Also, did you know that you’re trending twice?”

Arching a brow at him, she repositions her laptop so that it’s resting on her knees instead. “Really? I’ve only seen the the civil war hashtag. That one’s fun.”

“#PPMYTHOSCIVILWAR is only at 16.7k tweets,” Raven reminds her, propping her legs up on Wells’s ankles despite his feeble protests, “but #bellarke is at 181k tweets, so.”

Scrunching her brows together, she asks, “What’s that again?”

“It’s your ship name?” Raven says, in a tone that clearly conveys that the statement is meant to be followed up with a  _ duh.  _ “Get it? Bellamy and Clarke, so bellarke. To break it down for you, people trending for #ppmythoscivilwar totally believe that you guys are going to have a smackdown during Vidcon. People trending for #bellarke, on the other hand, think you guys are gonna have a smackdown at Vidcon, but fuck after.”

Realizing that she’s gaping, she snaps her mouth shut, working to keep her voice steady. “People are seriously speculating about  _ that _ ?”

“Not seriously.” Wells goes, rather unconvincingly.

“Well, I am, at least.” Raven shrugs, barreling right over her indignant squeak. “But don’t worry, I’m sure I’m one of the few. Pizza for dinner?”

Choking back a retort (that would probably get her nowhere, especially where Raven is concerned) she manages a weak, “Only if you’re getting it from Roma’s.”

“Sure. Wells drove anyway, so it’s no hassle. Your usual?”

“Uh huh,” she manages, absentminded, muting her laptop just as a notification from  _ @bellamythos  _ comes in. For some strange, stupid reason that she refuses to dwell on, she kind of  _ wants  _ their conversations to stay between them. At least for now. “Grab some paper plates on the way back?”

“I’ll make sure she remembers.” Wells says, immeasurably fond instead of exasperated (one of the many reasons why they work so well together, Clarke thinks) before pushing out of the already ajar door.

It’s unnervingly quiet upon their exit, and after taking a deep, calming breath, she unmutes her laptop, pulling up their message tab.

 

**@bellamythos:** First of all, I still stand by my point that the book will always be incrementally better than the movie, but I do admit that you argument about the year it was released does affect the production quality as a whole. 

**@bellamythos:** So thanks for that, and consider my worldview forever changed.

**@bellamythos:** Also a little random, but, have you tried pride and prejudice and zombies, yet? Seems right up your alley.

 

_ No,  _ Clarke types out, feeling her breath catch in her chest when she adds,  _ but maybe you could tell me all about it? _

It doesn’t take him all that long to respond, but she only regains the use of her lungs at the sight of flickering ellipses popping up by the side of the page, the perky chirp of her laptop sounding once before she fully relaxes, wiggling closer to read.

 

+

They don’t miraculously start getting along after the entire debacle, but they do fall into a routine of sorts, which is infinitely weirder. 

It always starts the same way: on Fridays, right around the time she gets her first pot of coffee brewing. Mornings begin with the ping of a Twitter notification, a direct message from the source itself before her email gets in on the case, informing her that  _ bellamythos  _ has tagged her in his recent upload. Breakfast is then spent watching aforementioned video over bagels and coffee, sometimes joined by Wells or Raven if their work schedules allow it.

He’ll message her after- mostly under the guise of making some sort of pointed jibe directed at her tutorial- even though it’s really his way of asking what she thought of it. She’ll reply in kind (mostly cycling between insult-based humor or actual constructive criticism) before uploading  _ her  _ video and dropping him the link, because it’s pointless if he misses out on it anyway.

And that’s how they get talking after, long discussions and repetitive arguments that should be tiresome and  _ stupid  _ (re: merits of an e-reader v.s physical copies of books, if there’s actually any difference between red velvet and chocolate) but _ isn’t, _ and she finds it more enjoyable than exhausting despite what everyone thinks. The spaces (and days) in between are relatively quieter, shyer, in a way, offering up small, random details of their lives before the cycle starts all over again.

If Clarke was a lot less stubborn, she might admit that they are sort-of, _maybe_ , friends.

But saying it out loud feels like surrendering, somehow, especially when the Internet has collectively decided that they are mortal enemies- the whole bellarke implication aside- and so she’s mostly not dwelling on it, diverting her attention to the upcoming Vidcon instead.

Vidcon is a few short hours away by plane from where she lives but Bellamy still insists on giving her a comprehensive list of book recommendations anyway, enough to fill up most of the memory space on her Kindle. (She would be peeved if she wasn’t already sucked in by a few of them.)

He messages her just as the plane begins its idle along the tarmac, during the small window of restlessness she gets before takeoff.

 

**@bellamythos:** I’m guessing you’ve already switched your cell phone off, being the law-abiding citizen that you are. But anyway. Safe trip, princess. Maybe we’ll run into each other later. 

 

It’s uncharacteristically casual in a way that suggests he probably put some thought into this. Biting back a laugh, Clarke straightens in her seat, types back. 

 

**@princesspaints:** Actually, telling me what to do is a sure-fire way of getting me to do the exact opposite, so yeah. I blame you if we get into a devastating accident after on the account of me not switching off my phone to make a point. 

 

Then, before she can chicken out, she adds: 

 

**@princesspaints:** Where’s your booth going to be at, later?

 

She drops her phone into her lap after hitting send, turning to press her forehead against the window pane. It tastes like reprieve, strangely, and she sinks into it, letting it cool her flushed cheeks. 

The seatbelt sign blinks on shortly after, the telltale rumbling of the engine pulling her out of her stupor as she yanks her seat back into upright position, phone vibrating against her thigh just as the safety video comes on.

Wiping her palms against the fabric of her jeans, she pulls the message up.

 

**@bellamythos:** I’m over at Zone D. You? 

 

The rush of disappointment she feels is a little unexpected, but she swats it away before she can overthink it, casting a surreptitious glance over at the air stewardess in the vicinity before firing back a response.

 

**@princesspaints:** I’m over at A. But who knows? Maybe I’ll come visit or something. Stretch my legs. 

 

“M’am,” the voice sounds distinctly exasperated, tinged with a little impatience too. “All mobile phones have to be switched off during takeoff. You can turn it back on again once we’re up in the air.”

“I know.” Clarke cringes, fumbling for the off button before summoning the most apologetic voice she can muster, “I am  _ so, so  _ sorry. Doing it now. See?”

She only manages to catch a glimpse of a notification before her screen goes black, but there it is, stark against her phone’s background.

 

**@bellamythos:** I’m holding you to that, princess.

 

The rest of the flight goes by relatively peacefully after that, and she actually manages to doze off for a little while before they land, the sharp jolt of the wheels bouncing against tarmac jerking her awake.

Rolling out the kinks gathered in her neck and shoulders, she grabs at her bag blearily, joining the line to exit the aircraft before booting up her email.

According to the itinerary sent over by the organizers, Clarke has a staggering  _ two _ hours to kill before she’s required to show up at her booth. Logically, unpacking or maybe taking a shower sounds like a good way to pass the time, but she’s never been one for good judgement anyway so she opts for a clean t-shirt and a ratty baseball cap upon arriving at the hotel, heading out straight after and making the short walk to the event hall of Vidcon.

It’s a fairly good turnout for the first day, the crowd dense and rolling as she pushes her way through, her gaze catching on the numerous banners of familiar names draped all over the room; Jasper Jordan, Monty Green, Nathan Miller—

She stops short at the sight of his face, outlined in a blaze of red, his familiar smirk bearing down at her.  _ Bellamy Blake, Zone D _ , she reads quietly, wincing at the elbow that lodges itself into her ribs at her sudden halt,  _ just up ahead. _

Someone else shoves against her shoulder, the pain finally jolting her into movement, her feet already shuffling towards the direction of his booth. It’s not like he’ll see her in the crowd anyway, she reasons, or maybe she could just give him a quick wave before going off, slipping away largely unnoticed—

Then he comes into view, and the only coherent thought she’s left with is  _ oh _ .

He’s a little shorter than she thought he would be, but then again, she had always just assumed that his smug, larger-than-life persona reflected on his appearance too. His curls are messier than ever, a tiny silver crown lodged in there, eyes bright and smile wide and yup, this is a terrible, _terrible_ idea.

Backing up slightly, she squeaks when someone shoves at her back, followed by a another, lurching back in place just as someone informs her, rather tartly,  _ to please refrain from cutting in line. _

“The line?” she gapes, swinging her gaze back to him, realization dawning at the sight of the sharpie in his hand. “Okay, no, you see, I’m not _in_ the line, I’m trying to get out—”

Then everyone’s surging forward, pushing her along, and she’s standing right in front of Bellamy Blake, staring.

He doesn’t notice her, at least not right away, his head still bent over one of his posters as he asks, friendly, “Right, who do I make it out to?” and she can actually make out the  _ precise  _ moment he spots her, his mouth going slack as he takes her in, the grip around his sharpie tightening.

She gives a helpless shrug, manages a weak, “Surprise?”

“Oh.” He breathes, shaking his head slightly, as if to clear it. “Hi there.”

“Hi.” She laughs, for the lack of anything better to say. It’s a little hard to concentrate, especially with the revelation that he has  _ freckles,  _ the shift of his muscles under his shirt making her mouth go dry. “I don’t know why you’re that surprised. You did say you were counting on me making it.”

That gets a laugh out of him too, soft and a little shy, his chin dipping down to his chest. “Yeah, but I didn’t think you’d come down here for an  _ autograph _ .”

“Really?” she teases, relaxing slightly at the warmth in his gaze. “Even though I’m your biggest fan? Even after I made videos in response to yours, and joined the clubs and got a t-shirt?”

“You know,” Bellamy muses, grin wide and a little conspiratorial, “you’re robbing our legions of fans here. They’re expecting a showdown and you’re being perfectly cordial towards me.”

“Right,” she nods, pursing her lips to keep from smiling. “Well, it’s not too late. I could always pitch that glass of water down your shirt.”

He mimics her nod, expression mock-solemn before he goes, “Right. So, remind me again: do you actually need me to aggravate you some more, or is the simple fact of my existence enough?” 

“Eh,” she scrunches a brow at him, gives a playful roll of her eyes. “Might need a little push.”

“Huh,” he beams, sardonic. “Funny, I’ve been told that I’m a real natural at it, so. I’m definitely your guy for this.”

She opens her mouth to respond, a witty one-liner already poised on the tip of her tongue—

And that’s when a blinding flash goes off, startling her enough to lose her train of thought, instinctively wheeling towards the source. The stunned expressions of the people in line behind her, their awed, hushed whispers suddenly reminds her that they’re, in fact, not alone.

Blushing furiously, she jams her hat further down along her face, managing a tight, drawn smile and a small wave. There’s an odd scattering of applause at that, a holler of  _ bellarke!  _ that makes her to crawl into a hole and never,  _ never  _ emerge before she averts her gaze, taking a pointed step away. “Uh, I should probably go.”

“Hey, wait,” he calls out, catching at her wrist lightly, a hint of uncertainty flashing across his face. “Uhm— I’ll look for you, after?”

There’s a small part of her that’s tempted to linger at this- the heat of his fingers around her wrist warm and intoxicating- but she tamps down that urge, wiggling out of his grip carefully so she could squeeze at his palm instead. “Sure. See you later, hotshot.”

“Princess.” He shoots back with a tilt of his chin, familiar shit-eating grin sliding into place as she darts off, taking the steps two at a time before disappearing back into the safety of the crowd below.

 

+

There’s not much time to dwell on the fact that she just met her supposed mortal enemy- not when she has her own signing to get to, at least- so Clarke pushes all thought of Bellamy Blake aside once she mounts that stage, busying herself by making conversation whenever she gets the chance, getting her handwriting _just_ right for the pictures.

The crowd mostly thins out after, leaving a few lone stragglers at her booth that she decides to go all out for, doodling on their photos and in the margins of their notebooks, snapping selfies with them and video messages too.

It’s  _ fun _ , lighthearted in a way that she doesn’t get to be during panels, and she’s genuinely enjoying herself when the question eventually comes up.

“So what’s the deal with you and this Bellamy Blake guy?” the girl ( _ Harper _ , she corrects herself, sneaking a peek at the name scrawled over the photo in her hand) asks, the wrinkle of her nose conveying her obvious distaste for him. “He seems like a dick.”

Resisting the urge to fidget at that, Clarke settles for a vague, non-committal smile instead. “It is what it is, mostly.”

That doesn’t seem to convince Harper though, if her suspicious squint is anything to go by. “So you guys hate each other? Like,  _ hate  _ hate?”

And mostly because she can’t resist, she goes, dry, “I don’t know. Like, would you want me to rate it on a scale, or...?”

Thankfully, that’s when they’re interrupted, another girl jostling into view bossily, “They’re friends _ ,  _ Harper. Jeez.”

“Oh, so, what? You’re more reliable than the actual source now?” Harper goes, shooting a pinched look over at her.

“I  _ went  _ to a source,” the girl rebuts, looking unusually smug about it. “I asked Bellamy about it during his signing, and he said that they were friends.  _ Good  _ friends.”

The statement itself isn’t inherently shocking or anything like that but it steals at her breath anyway, renders her speechless for half a second. Before this, she would have said that the answer wouldn’t have mattered- that  _ his  _ opinion of her didn’t- but here it was and she could feel the words resting against her skin, bare and laid out for everyone to see, a confirmation of a thought that she never dared to voice. It was both thrilling and frightening in equal measure, one of those fights without a winner in clear sight.

“So,” Harper continues, brows scrunched in confusion. “You guys  _ are  _ friends?”

“The last time I checked? Yeah.” She chirps, schooling her expression to one of calm neutrality before offering, “How about I sign your shirts too?”

That seems to mollify them at least, both of them departing shortly after giving cheery goodbyes and promising to come by to her panel tomorrow. It’s all she can do to paste a smile on her face until they turn out of sight, slumping down in her chair after and tilting her head back.

Her schedule states that she has about fifteen minutes left to man her booth, but the thought of any type of human interaction at this point is enough to send her scurrying, sliding off her seat and ducking under the table carefully instead, wedging her knees up to her chest.

It’s quiet in the small space, peaceful, even, and she contemplates taking a quick nap, eyes already drifting shut and—

The sudden  _ thump  _ of footsteps against the stage floor startles her back into alertness, grasping at the legs of the table as the sound of footfalls come abruptly to a halt, pausing right at her hiding place.

Arching a brow over at the scuffed, worn boots, she peers up, mindful to keep from slamming her head against the table’s surface.

Bellamy stares back at her, cocking his head to the side curiously. “You know,” he says, mild, “you didn’t have to go to such lengths to get my attention.”

“Ha,” she ekes out, thoughts unwittingly flitting back to the first time he said this to her, under much different circumstances. “Contrary to popular belief, I am sometimes capable of making my own stupid decisions.”

“Ducking under a table to avoid someone is definitely one of them,” he says, with a bemused crinkle of his nose. “Ever heard of pretending to use the bathroom instead?”

Huffing, she scoots back into her space, and in an uncharacteristically bold move, taps the spot next to her invitingly. “I’m not  _ avoiding  _ you. Just everyone else, mostly.”

“Huh.” He says thoughtfully, ducking in without complaint despite having to hunch over to fit. “Let me guess: exhausted, starved for caffeine and maybe sugar?”

“I also want to say that I’m jetlagged? But it was barely a two hour flight.”

He grins over at her, teeth blindingly white in the half-darkness. “Maybe you just like whining.”

“Like how you like making assumptions?” She goes, innocent, throwing in a saccharine sweet smile while she’s at it.

Grasping at his chest, he shoots her a mock-wounded look. “Now, that’s just  _ hurtful _ .”

“You started it.” She reminds him, struggling not to crack a smile in response to his. It still feels a little foreign sometimes, the notion of throwing around barbs and insults that felt soft around the edges, spitting endearments through teeth with cleverly disguised compliments curled under her tongue. She never had a friendship like this before. But then again, she never met someone like Bellamy either.

Shaking his head ruefully, he declares, “That’s how all the great wars started, you know.”

“I’m going to need coffee if you’re going to go on a spiel here.” Clarke tells him, solemn. “I get a pot ready when I see the tell-tale signs on Twitter. Starts the same, you know?  _ Back in my day _ —”

“It’s too early for old man jokes,” he interjects, before pitching forward to toss something on her lap.

She blinks, cradling it in her palm. It’s a little warm to touch, smells faintly of cinnamon and the mint mojito gum on his breath. “What’s this?”

He shrugs, averting his gaze from her pointedly. “A snack. I don’t want you falling asleep on me or anything. This is some pretty exciting material you can use for your next video if you get around to reviewing Saving Private Ryan, you know?”

The paper bag rustles obnoxiously loud when she unfolds it, unearthing a giant, already crumbling red velvet cookie coated in cream cheese.

“You remembered,” she laughs, popping her thumb into her mouth to lick away the cream cheese gathered on her nail. “Did I successfully convert you yet? Like it better than chocolate now?”

“Only because it comes with the cream cheese.” He says grumpily, his knee bumping up against hers companionably.

Swallowing, she presses back with equal force before he can shy away, holding it there. It’s easier in the dark, somehow, as if they were secluded in a space that reality couldn’t touch. The Clarke in  _ this  _ space didn’t worry about how things would be like when the lights came back on. The Clarke in this space acted on her impulses.

He doesn’t give any indication that he’s affected by the newfound proximity, just keeps going, telling her in a low voice about the bloodshed and the lives lost and the politics of it all, unweaving all these tangled threads with a kind of deftness and surety that makes her a little envious.

It’s stupidly attractive on him, she thinks, and a different side to Bellamy too, one she never thought he possessed. The passion was still there, of course, as was the intensity, but muted, as if he recognized that there wasn’t a need to make a show out of it, all mutterings about conspiracy theories before losing his train of thought and having to recollect himself, pausing to apologize from time to time if he got to rambling.

And yeah, it’s precisely all  _ that  _ which distracts her, really; so when he asks for her number when they finally emerge into the light, blinking owlishly, she gives it.

 

+

He flops down next to her, grin insouciant and arm slung loosely over her chair, deliberately casual in a way that she knows is purposeful. 

Clarke feels her brow shoot up to her hairline, voice going shrill. “What are you  _ doing _ ?”

“Eating my lunch.” He says, innocent, gesturing at the brown paper bag set in front of her. “Chicken salad or tuna?”

Swatting his hand away impatiently, she scowls, hating how that only seems to delight him further. “Not when I’m at my  _ own  _ signing, you jackass.”

The whispers have already started up, she realizes belatedly, muffled squeals and giggles accompanied by the click of camera shutters. It doesn’t bother her as much as it should, strangely, though she suspects that it has a lot to do with the goofy, boyish grin on Bellamy’s face. (It’s  _ cute _ , as much as she hates to admit it.)

“No one minds that I’m here,” he argues, pulling two juice boxes out of the bag carefully. “I won’t intrude or anything either. Just going to stay right here and eat my sandwich.” Then, consideringly, “Preferably with you, of course. That’s why I’m here in the first place.”

Narrowing her eyes over at him, she taps her finger to her chin, pretending to think about it. “Hmm.”

“Come on, Clarke.” He goes, pouting just a little. As it turns out, he appears to be unfairly talented in assuming a mournful, hangdog expression. “Are you really going to make me eat lunch alone?”

(She thinks she actually hears someone  _ gasp  _ upon him making that face, which while dramatic, is pretty understandable. Clarke gets it.)

Feigning a deep sigh, she picks up the sharpie again, uncaps it crisply. “Don’t think I won’t chase you off if you start making a ruckus, Blake.”

“I wouldn’t  _ dare _ .” He says, solemn, the twitching corners of his mouth giving him away before it dissolves into a real, genuine smile. This time when he speaks, it’s soft, meant only for her. “Thanks, princess.”

Dropping her gaze back to the table, she lets a curtain of hair fall over her face, cheeks hot. “Shut up,” she mumbles. It sounds a lot more like  _ you’re welcome. _

True to his word, he eats mostly in silence, shooting her questioning looks whenever she’s neglected her sandwich for too long, or looking on while she talks to her fans, expression carefully blank except for the tell-tale quirk of his lips. Hell, it would even be  _ easy _ to ignore his presence if she wasn’t so keenly attuned to it already, hyper-aware of every brush of his elbow against hers, how he faintly smelled of coffee and pine.

Sneaking yet another peek over at him, she startles when she realizes he’s staring right back at her, looking faintly amused. She makes a face at him, baring her teeth, before directing her attention back to the booth, shooting the girl in line an absentminded smile.

The girl giggles back, darting a quick glance over at Bellamy before asking, in distinctly hushed tones, “You don’t hate him anymore, do you?”

From the corner of her eye, she can see him straighten, shifting imperceptibly closer. The action itself fills her with a wave of fondness for him, though she keeps her eyes pinned on the girl before her resolutely.

“Depends on the day,” Clarke says, because old habits die hard and she does love making him squirm. “But yeah, most of the time, no. He’s my friend.”

He stills at that for a moment, his gaze heavy against her cheek, unreadable, until a second glance confirms that he is, in fact, smiling a little to himself, hunching over and resting his chin against his palm to hide it.

_ Nerd,  _ she doesn’t say, popping the remains of her sandwich to her mouth before they section her booth off, signifying that she’s done with signings for the day.

They traipse backstage after, Bellamy still cradling their juice boxes before sequestering themselves in the small wedge of space right by the sound booth.

“Don’t you have a panel in fifteen minutes?” she asks, frowning, popping her straw into the box and taking a long, noisy slurp.

That gets a sigh out of him. “Yeah,” he says, reluctant, toying with the stray thread hanging from his jeans. “Normally I’ll be pretty okay with it, but I’m exhausted as hell and not exactly feeling up for it, you know?”

She makes a sympathetic noise, patting at his head soothingly. “Well, think about it like this: fifteen minutes is going to be spent introducing you, another ten for your best of moments video, then maybe about, another twenty spent making small talk with the host which leaves you with just fifteen minutes left to  _ actually  _ field questions from your fans, so. It’s not that bad.”

“Huh,” he snorts, leaning into her touch, his curls soft between her fingers. “Sounds appropriately hellish. Cons are always only fun for the first few hours. It all turns to shit after.”

“Yeah.” She agrees, clucking her tongue at him when he gives another forlorn groan. “Just— do you want me to come with you? Will that help?”

He perks up at that, peering over at her from between his lashes. “As in— wait, really?”

Clarke snorts. “I mean, you’re being kind of a baby about it, so yeah. I could sit in the audience. Draw some stuff on my tablet and flash them to you when you get bored.”

“Fun.” He snorts, sobering quickly when he adds, “It’s fine if you don’t want to, you know. I get it. You should rest up if you’re tired.”

“Bellamy,” she says, stern, getting to her feet before reaching out and offering him a hand. “I  _ want  _ to, okay? I’ll get to see you in action. Distract you a little and possibly humiliate you. All my favorite things, you know?”

“Well, who am I to deprive you of that?” He says, wry, before taking it, his palm comically large in hers, warm and dry and comforting. “But hey, draw me something good? None of that modern art stuff. Or like, anything too abstract because I guarantee you that I’m not going to get any of it.”

“Oh yeah,” she nods, injecting a heavy dose of sarcasm into her voice while letting him lead the way over to the auditorium. “I was actually thinking more along the lines of this new series I’m trying? Everything’s going to be phallic shaped, but like, subtle you know? I’m quoting you as my muse.”

“Cute.” He deadpans, lacing their fingers together. “You’re a class act, Clarke.”

(In the end, the only thing remotely risqué she draws is a chicken humping a bee after he cracks a questionable joke. It’s relatively grade-school, stick-figure quality, really, but it still makes him choke on his breath anyway.)

 

+

Raven’s not huge on texting- it’s one of those small, absolutely minor things that Clarke can’t stand about her but has to learned to live with, much like dealing with Wells’s general aversion to technology or the weirdly temperamental microwave in her complex. 

So it’s surprising, to say the least, when her phone buzzes with a text from her.

Her first instinct is geared towards suspicion ( _ maybe someone hacked it)  _ then paranoia ( _ oh god, someone’s DEAD _ ) then grim acceptance ( _ if this is some elaborate ruse to fuck up her phone, raven could probably fix it _ ), before she finally pulls up the message, leaning back against her bed’s headboard.

It’s not as incriminating as she thought it would be, just a bunch of blurry phone shots that she must have stolen off the internet- the first on-stage handshake between her and Bellamy, subsequent photos of them sitting around and talking, sipping from their respective cups of coffee.

She stops on the last photo, a shaky photo of them walking out of the auditorium together. Her face is blurred, but she catches glimpses of teeth and upturned brows. Bellamy is in focus, gracing a fond, half-smile while he looks over at her, soft.

It’s a nice photo, she thinks, swallowing hard. She saves it before she can overthink it, then scrolls down to read the message.

 

**Raven:** he is literally the epitome of the heart-eyes emoji

**Raven:** I mean so are you, but

**Raven:** he’s a lot more obvious

**Raven:** and in case I wasn’t obvious enough, the point me sending you this is to encourage you to GO GET THAT, GIRL!!

 

Stifling a laugh in her palm, she lets her head fall back, grinning stupidly up at her ceiling. God.

If someone had told her a few weeks ago that she’d be considering asking Bellamy Blake out on a date, she would have laughed in their face, and yet  _ here  _ they are.

Giving a rueful shake of her head, she directs her attention back to her phone, taps out:

 

**Clarke:** I’ll think about it.  

 

+

It’s customary to end off with a con with a celebration- or basically whatever they could scrounge up with the least possible amount of money spent- so that’s precisely what happens on the last day. 

The party is well underway by the time she arrives, a drunken cheer going up when she joins the circle, beer in hand.

“Clarke!” Jasper beams, slinging an arm over her shoulders. “Hi.  _ Hi.  _ Did I mention how glad I am that I met you? You’re the best, like the  _ best  _ man, and—”

She interjects before he can do anything more embarrassing, like he had the tendency to do when he was drunk. (Jasper was an emotional drunk, and while it was funny sometimes, bursting out into sobs could sometimes kill the mood.) “I’m glad I met you too, buddy.”

He giggles at that, patting at her shoulder affectionately. “I totally added you on snapchat. Oh, and on everything else.”

“Sure.” She smiles, taking a sip from her bottle. _This,_ she felt, was the best part about cons. It was hard not to develop a sort of camaraderie with everyone when you were all stuck in the same space for several days, kind of like being stuck in the same class together and having to suffer through that one terrible professor. Except this time, they endured organizers fuck ups and scheduling issues and occasionally traded creepy fan stories.

“Ignore him,” Monty laughs, reaching over to swipe the now-empty beer bottle from Jasper’s grip. “It’s way past his bedtime anyway. I was supposed to cut him off five minutes ago.”

“I’m just impressed he got drunk off  _ beers _ .” She points out, ducking out from under his grip when he begins to sway. “I didn’t think anyone could be that much of a lightweight.”

That gets a snort out of him. “It’s  _ Jasper,”  _ he says, as if it explained everything. “I’m gonna bring him up to his room now, but I’m sure Miller can keep you company.”

Miller huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “I didn’t even volunteer for this.”

“You don’t have to,” she replies, poking him lightly in the ribs. It took her a little while to get used to him; the sharp, razor-edged smiles and the biting sarcasm. She found that she liked it,  _ him _ , mostly. “No one’s asking you to babysit me.”

“Good, because Miller’s terrible company anyway.” A voice says, easy, and she nearly trips over herself in her haste to look at him.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” she says, because maybe she likes being difficult, though the effect is somewhat ruined with the way she’s beaming at him.

“Oh, I bet you’ve been practicing for that one.” Bellamy smirks, though it sounds more teasing than anything. “I would have come down sooner, but Octavia called and she wouldn’t stop bugging me.”

Frowning, she leans in closer to listen. “About what? Her move?”

(His sister’s big move to another state for a her new job was a constant topic of discussion between the both of them. It mostly involved Bellamy fretting while she googled migration statistics in a twisted attempt to make him feel better.)

Bellamy gives a vague wave of his hand, looking a little distracted. “Amongst other things, I guess.” Then, a little louder, “So is there anything to do at this party, or are we just going to stand around and drink ourselves silly?”

Trying not to let the abrupt change in subject discomfit her, Clarke shrugs instead, jerks her chin over to the back of the room. “Uh, there’s darts going on over there and beer pong on the far right.”

He eyes her consideringly, arching a brow over at her. “Think you could beat me at darts?”

Well, she’s never played, but she’s not going to tell  _ him  _ that. “Loser buys the drinks.”

“Nobody’s even  _ paying  _ for drinks, Clarke!”

Turns out darts are pretty self-explanatory despite her inexperience, and Monty comes by with some hooch after so they get to mix it up a little by taking shots. Splitting into teams then seemed like the logical choice when Miller finally joins the fray (a tad grumpily) and that’s when it gets competitive, fast.

“You got this,” Bellamy reassures her when she gets into position, lining up her shot. “Just remember to keep your wrist relaxed.”

“It already is!” She insists, leaning back woozily when he draws up behind her, holding her upright. “See? It’s good. I’m relaxed.”

His chuckle is a breath of hot air against the back of her neck, making her shiver. “I meant just your wrist, Clarke.”

“That’s what I’m doing.” She goes, innocent, willing the thumping of her pulse to slow when he reaches for her arm, slow enough that she could demur away if she wanted to. Carefully, he adjusts her grip, stepping closer to her so she could get the angle right.

A beat passes, his hair soft against her cheek and their breath mingling. She feels oddly suspended in space, somehow, unmoored, the press of his body against hers the only thing keeping her grounded.

Then with a careful, precise  _ flick,  _ the dart buries itself into the board, dead-centre.

She registers Miller’s groan first, followed by Monty’s disappointed half-yell and then he’s laughing right against her ear, the sound unrestrained and joyful before they untangle themselves, her skin cooling when he pulls away.

“You holding up okay?” Monty asks when she rejoins the table, stumbling a little, already half-out of his chair to grab at her in case she fell.

Nodding, she curls up into Bellamy’s side instead, feeling a sleepy rush of satisfaction when his hand curls over her hip instinctively, holding her close. “I’m good, yeah.”

 

+

Everyone clears out sometime after three in the morning, which makes it all that much easier to sneak up onto the roof. 

“I wish we had a blanket,” he tells her woozily as they settle down onto the ground, gravel biting into her skin as she moves closer to him again, all the alcohol from before emboldening her enough to press her cheek against his chest.

“You’ll do fine.” She mumbles, and his laugh is a surprised, delighted one, his form shaking slightly underneath her.

They lapse back into silence after; Bellamy’s face tilted up to the stars, Clarke taking deep gulps of the cool night air. The moment tastes of waiting, somehow, dancing around something that she couldn’t put a name on.

Then, a little apprehensively, he asks, “What time’s your flight tomorrow?”

She closes her eyes, breathes him in. “Ten.”

“I’ll come send you off.” He murmurs, playing with the ends of her hair. “I’m only a five minute drive away from the airport anyway.”

Her eyes are stinging at the thought of leaving, but she blinks them away hastily, refusing to give in to the strange urge to cry. Then, before she could chicken out, “You’re a really great person, you know that?”

(It’s one of the few things she wants to tell him, before going. Amongst other things, really, but she can’t quite summon the bravery to say them yet.)

“Well, I think you’re perfectly adequate too.” He tells her haltingly, and she wonders if he feels it too, the weight of everything that they were both leaving unsaid pressing down on her chest and making it hard to breathe.

She can feel the bob of his throat when he leans down to press a kiss against the space between her brows, chaste and sweet. “You want me to tell you about the stars?”

“Sure,” she says finally, tries not to think about how it already sounds like goodbye _.  _ “Tell me all about them.”

 

+

It doesn’t really sink in that Vidcon is over until she’s at the airport, wheeling along her crappy luggage all while trying to find her passport and keep ahold of her cup of coffee.

“You know,” Bellamy muses, reaching over to pluck the cup from her hands. “You could have packed a little earlier and saved yourself all this trouble, instead of only getting to it this morning.”  “Don’t shame me for my packing habits.” She goes, face heating at the thought of last night; how they had talked until his voice had gone hoarse and how she had woken up with a cramp in her neck, to _him_. “Plus, I have a system, you know. I’d explain it to you but I’m not sure it’s something mere mortals can grasp.”

“Rude.”

“Dick,” she counters, feeling her eyes mist over despite the promise she made to herself that she would  _ not  _ cry. Some part of her recognizes that it’s stupid to feel so upset about this, that they could always go back to texting and maybe a few calls here and there too, but.

It’s not going to be the same, and god _ ,  _ she’s going to miss him.

And maybe there’s another part of her that recognizes- that acknowledges, really- that she has some semblance of feelings towards him. Strong ones, feelings she didn’t think she was capable of  _ having _ , not anymore. It feels inevitable, but daunting, too, weighed down by so many factors on why they shouldn’t.

Maybe this was the only way they could exist; in the half-darkness crouched under a table, in a bubble of space floating on a separate axis. A part of her  _ knew  _ that they could coexist in the same one where her real life was, back where Raven was, and Wells, and everyone else. But she was afraid to try, and Bellamy felt too important for her to risk.

“Hey,” he rumbles, quiet, swiping at the tears gathered at the corners of her eyes. “Don’t get all sappy on me here, Clarke. You have a scathing rebuttal on my review of 300 to post tonight.”

Sniffling, she leans forward to rest her forehead against his chest. “God, how can a single person be wrong about so many things?”

She can feel him smiling against her hair, the upward curve of his mouth. “Beats me. But I’m sure you can tell me all about it.”

“In excruciating detail.” Clarke agrees, pulling back slightly. Her fingers are still bunched up in the front of his shirt, holding him close enough that she can see the freckles in his irises, the faint flutter of his dark lashes. “I’m going to miss you.”

He wets his lips, blinking rapidly. When he speaks, his voice is taut with emotion. “I’m going to miss you too, Clarke.”

It feels impossible to speak through the lump in her throat, her vision blurring as she goes up on her toes to plant a kiss on his cheek, lingering at the catch of his breath, the way he falls still with his hand warm against the small of her back.

“Call me.” She manages, backing up. Then, grasping at her luggage handle, she arcs on her heel and walks away.

+

As it turns out, she doesn’t need to tell Raven anything because she figures it out the second she walks through the door. 

“You like him,” she says, curious, her gaze roving from her face to the cell phone she has in her death grip. “You really,  _ really  _ like him.”

“Stupid amounts.” Clarke agrees, abandoning her suitcase by the door so she could flop down onto the sofa, lay her head in Raven’s lap. “Like, truly, incredibly stupid amounts, in case you were wondering.”

“I figured.” She goes, wry, patting at the tufts of hair that have come loose from her braid. “I fail to see what the problem is, exactly, but I think you can explain that to me.”

She blinks, props herself up on her elbows. “He lives a few states away.”

“And you live in a dystopian society with no running water, electricity or technology?” Raven counters, each word dripping with sarcasm.

“I mean, no, but—”

“Oh god, I have it. His parents disapprove and his mom is threatening to cut him off from his trust fund if he doesn’t stop dating you.”

“That actually sounds more of a likely scenario for me than him?” Clarke points out, slumping back into the warmth of the cushions, “Considering he’s a card-carrying member of the dead parents club.”

“Right.” She nods, before continuing rather blithely, “Does he pull more rank than the both of us?”

Wrinkling her brow at the ceiling, she purses her lips, considers. “Yeah,” she says finally, picking at a loose thread hanging from her sweater. “Two dead parents, so I think he’s higher up there than the both of us.”

“Okay,” Raven sighs, reaching over to tug at her hair lightly. “But my mom’s an alcoholic, so clearly I’m at least a rank or two above you.”

She can’t help it, she snorts. “My mom got my dad killed, remember?”

“Damn it!” Raven swears, nudging at her ribs with her foot and making her squirm, “I always forget that you have that over me. It’s shakespearean levels of fucked up.”

Tamping down the urge to laugh, she sits up fully so she could squeeze at Raven’s wrist, hide a small smile against her shoulder. It was nice that they could finally joke about it, that they could talk about everything that happened without feeling the same phantom, hollow ache in their bones.

Exhaling gustily into the sleeve of Raven’s shirt, she adds, “There’s also this tiny thing where both my previous relationships imploded and I’m generally terrible at them.”

“Because it was Finn and Lexa,” she replies, distaste clear in her voice. “They aren’t exactly known for being prime candidates for stable, fulfilling relationships either.”

“You  _ dated  _ Finn.”

“Yeah, which is how I know.” Raven goes, perfectly reasonable in a way that makes it a pain for anyone to deal with during arguments. “Look, I’m just telling you not to walk away from this just because you’re  _ scared,  _ or because you’re worried about the distance or whatever other stupid reason you can come up with. You like this guy and he likes you, so.” She gives a small shrug at that, dislodging her from her perch unceremoniously. “What’s the harm in trying, right?”

Rubbing at her cheek, she sighs, relenting. “I hate it when you’re right.”

“Too bad I’m always right.” Raven preens, getting to her feet. “By the way, I totally looked at your phone while you were drowning in self-pity, and loverboy texted.”

Clarke gives a gasp of mock-outrage, making sure to sound deeply affronted when she calls out, “And you’re only telling me this  _ now _ ?”

Her responding laugh drifts over from the kitchen, trailing her even after she hauls her suitcase back to her room, shutting the door behind her. It feels easier to check her phone in the quiet of her room anyway, the faint, familiar sounds of Raven bumbling around in her kitchen soothing her enough to pull up the message.

 

**Bellamy:** Hey, drop me a text when you’re home safe? 

**Bellamy:** And yes, I can practically feel you rolling your eyes from here. Sorry I can’t help my big brother instincts.

**Bellamy:** Uh, not that I’m insinuating that I think of you as a sister or anything. God forbid. That’s the furthest possible thing actually.

**Bellamy:** Okay fuck, I’m just going to stop before I make anymore of an idiot of myself. Hope there’s no traffic from the airport.

 

Muffling a laugh in her palm, she brings up his contact sheet instead, hits the dial button before she can chicken out.

It rings for a while before he picks up, the first thing she hears being a mumbled curse, the crackle of the phone being jostled around in his grip before he goes, “Well, this is a surprise.”

“I’m known to be really good at them.” She reminds him, thumping down on the rug below her and drawing her knees up to her chest. “Hi. I made it home okay, in case it wasn’t clear before.”

He makes an agreeable noise. “Yeah, and I sent you a bunch of stupid messages, in case it wasn’t clear before.”

Grinning, she tips her head back, remembering how he had flushed all the way to the tips of his ears when he was embarrassed. “They weren’t all  _ that  _ bad. The transition from smooth and really casual to having a minor freak out was really entertaining.”

“Yeah, I really don’t know what my thought process was there.” Bellamy admits, rueful. “Is it okay if I put you on loudspeaker, by the way? I’m trying to put on this stupid tie and it’s being fucking impossible.”

“Sure,” she goes, then when the words finally sink in, “wait, a  _ tie _ ? Shit, I have to hear this.”

“Shut up,” he grumbles, though it sounds largely good-natured. “Octavia is insisting on dragging me out to this fancy dinner with her and Lincoln, presumably so I can get to know him better. And so I’ll stop worrying about her move, I guess.”

“Huh. I didn’t even know you owned a tie.” She muses, slotting her phone into the crook of her shoulder.

Letting out a sharp bark of laughter, he goes, “ _ Two  _ ties. And one of them was a gag gift from Miller. It has flamingos on them.”

“Okay, this I got to see.” She says, scrambling to her feet. “Turn on your FaceTime.”

There’s a considerable pause, long enough for her to wonder if he hung up. Then, a little suspiciously, “What the fuck is that?”

“Seriously?” Biting back an exasperated laugh, she continues, “It’s like a video call? I want to say like Skype, but I’m starting to worry you don’t know what that is either.”

“I know what  _ Skype _ is.” He mutters, sounding distinctly sullen. “Okay, fine, whatever. How do I turn it on?”

“Uh,” she goes, checking for her reflection in the mirror before quickly coming to the decision to loop her hair up into a bun instead. “On your screen right now, there should be a button? With a little video camera on it? Just click that and it’ll be fine, you luddite.”

“I’m a YouTube personality, Clarke.” He says, rather primly. “I’m not a luddite.”

“Yeah, because you know how to  _ use  _ YouTube. It’s all the new technology that you’re scared of.” She teases, feeling the breath rush out of her when he comes into view, hair dishevelled and looking a little cranky. “Hi.”

The tense set of his mouth softens at that. “Hey,” he says, running his fingers through his hair. “I’m aware that I look like a mess, but I’m definitely going to do something to my hair after I pick a tie.”

“Why? I like your hair.” She blurts, the words morphing into a drawn-out groan at the smug smile he shoots her. “That was a slipup. Don’t get used to it, or anything.”

He cocks his chin over at her, shit-eating grin still in place. “Whatever you say. Okay, I’m going to put the phone down now and show you the options I got.”

“I’m so excited I’m shaking.” Clarke deadpans, curling up into her armchair and getting comfortable.

She helps him pick out a tie and a fresh shirt, their conversation easy and warm and good, and by the time he asks _same time tomorrow,_ well. She can’t quite remember why she had been so worried in the first place.

+

It goes exactly like this for the next few months; daily phone calls and FaceTime sessions, text messages and silly snaps. None of them comes right out and says it, exactly, but she knows what they’re building towards. What they  _ could  _ be, if she would just do something about it already. It feels a little foreign to her, sometimes, new. She had stumbled into all of her previous relationships, going along with them after, coasting. But Bellamy, well. 

He was different, different in a way where she knew that he could make her immeasurably, stupendously happy. Her past relationships had been hasty, rushed affairs, ones with expiration dates and ticking time bombs that she saw no way of evading, filled with now or never moments that tasted bittersweet, and maybe there had been a time when she  _ wanted  _ that, but not anymore.

Because here it was: it would never be like that, not with Bellamy. There was no half-formed, declarative romantic sentiments when it came to him, no empty promises or big, sweeping moments. It was staying on the phone with her until she fell asleep, talking her through the night. It was remembering when she had dinners with her mom and sending her encouraging texts all throughout. It was him knowing how she took her coffee and the way she liked her eggs cooked. All the small, undefinable moments that spanned out above her and formed fucking  _ galaxies _ until it (and him) was all she could see.

And above all, he was her best friend. Her confidant and ally, the one person she wanted to be with the world went quiet or when it screamed and raged and exploded into chaos. He was her sense of equilibrium and she was his.

Missing him felt easy and hard, all the same.

Hard, because she heard the gravel in his voice every morning when he called after his shower, because she had his routine figured out in the first few months, because his face illuminated by the light of his laptop screen was the last thing she saw on most nights. She didn’t miss him on days like this. Didn’t feel like she needed to.

Easy, because she would look at his wild, unruly curls and realize that she couldn’t remember the texture of it between her fingers anymore. Easy, because he would be laughing at something she said and she’d be thinking how she couldn’t even remember how he  _ smelled  _ anymore, how she didn’t know if his skin still felt sun-warm and scorching when it was the middle of winter. She missed him most on those days. It felt like she was poking at the edges of a fresh bruise.

“Hey,” she asks, breaking the silence, tapping the screen obnoxiously until he looked up from his book, dazed. “Do you use cologne?”

His brows scrunches adorably at that, straightening as he sets the book down. “Uh, no. Should I be? Are you trying to get at something?”

“No,” Clarke huffs, bookmarking the page on her kindle before powering it off. They did this a lot, call each other for company as they sat in silence and did their own thing. Maybe some people would find it weird, but it was one of the many things she appreciated about him. “I just wondered, that’s all. It could be your laundry detergent.”

“I don’t even have a consistent brand I use,” he says, amused. “I just buy whatever’s on sale. You’ve witnessed me grocery shopping. I understand nothing about brand loyalty.”

“He says proudly,” she goes, flat, before dropping her chin back on her sheets. “I don’t know how you do it sometimes. Seems like a viable survival skill I could use.”

Bellamy grins over at her, wide enough that she can catch a glimpse of the white strip of gum held between teeth. “Sometimes I do make exceptions, though.”

“Ah,” she says, nodding sagely. “Only for your fuckboy gum.”

“Hey, I resent that.” he says, indignant. “Mint mojito gum isn’t  _ just _ exclusively for fuckboys. It’s probably for the older crowd too, you know? You get alcohol whenever you can get it after hitting a certain point.”

Scoffing, she hides a smile in the crook of her elbow, peering back up at him shyly. “You’re a nerd.”

“Yeah,” he replies, easy, before going back to his book. “But that’s why you like me.”

(She buys a pack of that stupid gum the day after, goes through the entire pack in two days. It’s not half as bad as she thought it would be.)

+

Then, two days before Christmas, her mom drops the news that she’s getting remarried. 

And it’s not like Clarke’s all that surprised, really- considering that her mother has been dating Marcus Kane for months- but the news still hits her like a ton of bricks anyway, making her feel strangely off kilter.

There’s emails to get back to, and her new response video to post and a lunch date with Wells later, but all she can think through the fog that has settled over her brain is that she wants  _ Bellamy.  _ She wants him to hold her hand, and card his fingers through her hair and tell her that it’s going to be alright because he’s the only one who knows  _ how. _

So she grabs her passport and books a flight.

It’s only after she gets on when she realizes that she didn’t exactly  _ pack  _ or anything. No clothes or toothbrush or books, not even underwear. She has her kindle, a pack of maltesers and her phone at fifty percent, but she can’t really summon the urge to worry about it now.

She’ll be seeing Bellamy in a few hours. That’s all that matters anyway.

The plane lands at about ten in the morning, which means that Bellamy’s at his favorite coffee shop, drinking whatever sugary sweet drink he can get off the menu while he edits his videos. She hails the first cab she sees, reading off the address she found on her phone before settling back in her seat, shaky.

Then, sucking in a deep breath, she taps on her recents, bringing up his contact sheet and hitting dial.

He answers on the first ring, like he was expecting her. “Hey, how did the talk with your mom go?”

“Okay.” She manages, despite the tremble in her voice. The streets whizzing by her through the window are vaguely familiar, either from the last time she’s been here or through his  constant FaceTime conversations with her. “It was— okay, I guess. Alright.”

A beat goes by, and when he speaks this time, the concern in his voice is palpable. “You don’t  _ sound  _ fine. What happened? You know you can talk to me about it, right? If you want to, that is.”

The car pulls up at a brick-lined street, the fading letters of Grounders Coffee coming in view. It’s small, a little run-down, exactly like how she pictured it would be. The kind of place she just knew that he would adore. Choking back a laugh, she slides the money over to the driver, ducking out carefully.

“Truth be told?” she laughs, the sound more watery than she thought it would be. “I just wanted to hear the sound of your voice.”

Scanning the premises, her gaze snags on the tangle of curls by the window, the dark-framed glasses slipping off the bridge of his nose. After months and months and  _ months _ , and… here he is.

“I’m right here.” He says, soothing, even though she can see the muscle in his jaw working from all the way across the street, “Do you want me to just— talk? Distract you?”

“Okay.” She goes, taking a few steps forward, right until where she’s standing by the door. “You could give me a coffee recommendation. Maybe tell me about the pastry selection at the cafe.”

He still has his head down, angled away from her, glancing up once only to look out of the window. “Jeez, I didn’t know I was that predictable. Uh, okay. I’m having one of those novelty christmas drinks right now, a caramel brulée latte. You’ll hate it. It’s loaded with so much sugar I can feel my arteries clogging with every sip.”

Clarke sniffs, brushing away a few errant tears that have sprung free. “What, you didn’t want to try out honey and almond chocolate instead?”

“Yeah, but—” he stops short at that, straightening. “Wait, how would you know that they have it here?”

_ Because I’m at the door,  _ she doesn’t get to say, his gaze snapping to her instantly, mouth dropping open to gape. Then he’s on his feet and she’s pushing her way in, arms going around his shoulders instinctively and tackling him into a hug, her breath uneven against his neck.

His arms go around her torso, pressing her closer, murmuring her name against her hair and she’s fucking  _ crying  _ with it, trying to get a better hold of him when he’s practically lifting her off the floor.

“I jumped on a plane,” she says when they break apart, her breath still hitching sporadically as she wipes at her face. “I just— I fucking missed you so much. I needed to see you.”

He chuckles, the sound disbelieving and fond, his fingers still wrapped around her forearms, like he can’t believe she’s here. “You actually did something crazy. You just went out and did it, and—” he breaks off into a frown, surveying her carefully, “Please tell me you packed  _ some  _ things with you.”

She waves her phone at him lamely, dropping it back into her bag. “I have this.”

“Jesus,” he laughs, his thumb rubbing small, comforting circles against her arm. “It’s okay, I’ll loan you my stuff. Want to grab a drink? We can walk back to my apartment, then you can drop off your very tiny, very pathetic bag.”

“Sure.” She smiles, linking their arms together, hiding her smile against his shoulder when he introduces her to the baristas.

It’s a short walk back to his apartment, and they spend the entire time bickering over their drinks and sampling from each other cups, the easy rhythm of it all making her beam into his chest. He keeps his hand against the small of her back the entire time, guiding her up the steps until they make it through his front door.

“Uh, so you should know that I didn’t book a return flight ticket.” She admits, dropping her bag onto the kitchen counter.

“That’s okay,” he shrugs, sweeping the papers on the table into a small stack by the side. “Like I said, I can loan you stuff. You can take my bed too. I’ll take the couch.”

“Right,” she echoes, feeling her pulse thrill when he turns to look at her. “The couch.”

He swallows, the bobbing motion of his throat distracting her long enough that she nearly misses his response. “Yeah. It’s comfortable. I’ll be okay.”

Her palms feel clammy at the knowledge of what she’s about to do, what she’s about to say. Letting loose a shaky, trembling laugh, she draws closer, close enough that she can feel his breath on her temple, his lips flitting against the edge of her brow. “I don’t want you sleeping on the couch.”

“You don’t?” Bellamy rasps, and she has to grab onto the front of his shirt to keep herself steady.

“No,” she whispers, feeling his hands go to her waist, holding her still. “I want you right next to me. I always want you with me, don’t you get that?”

His laugh is soft, a little shy. Reminiscent of the first time they met all those months ago. “You could have been clearer about it,” he goes, wry, lips grazing her ear and making her shiver with it. “Maybe you’re really into platonic cuddling.”

She huffs, pushing up on her feet. “I mean, yeah, I am. But I’m only interested in the non-platonic aspect of it with  _ you _ .”

He slides his hand under her jaw, thumb stroking at her cheekbone lightly. “Then you should have just said so.”

“Bellamy Blake, so help me god—”

Then he’s kissing her, soft and sweet, his lips tasting like cinnamon and burnt sugar and  _ Bellamy  _ and she throws herself into it, coaxing his mouth open under hers and sliding her tongue against his, grappling at her shoulders to get him closer.

He groans into her mouth, nipping at her lower lip when she refuses to let up. “ _ Clarke. _ ”

“What?” she asks, already breathless from it all, her fingers dancing along his shoulder blades, along the lines of them.

“Our first time is not going to be on the crappy sofa.” He murmurs, hands traversing down to the outside of her thighs before she gets the message, jumping up clumsily and giggling into his mouth as he carts her into his room, dropping her gently onto his bed.

“You didn’t make your bed.” She teases before he’s on her immediately, kissing and kissing her, hands roving at her sides and down to her ass before circling back up again, like he’s not sure where to touch her now that he can.

He grunts against her collarbone, presses another kiss on her neck. “Well, I didn’t know I was going to have  _ company  _ today.”

“Yeah, but you’re freakishly neat about everything else.” She says, curling her fingers into his hair and tugging back so she could look at him.

“Shut up,” he grouses, though it’s at odds with the wide smile gracing his face. Then, soft, so light that she has to strain to hear him, “In case it wasn’t clear before. I, uh. I love you, okay? I’ve been holding back on that for a while now.”

She reaches up to kiss him once more, tasting his laugh against her teeth, the sheer joy of it all making her giddy.

“I love you too,” she murmurs, as he lays her back onto the bed.

+

In the end, she finds it when she least expects it. 

Staring at the screen before her, she blinks, refreshes the webpage just to make sure. But there it is, staring right back at her, the cheery font  _ taunting _ her before she eases his laptop shut, getting to her feet.

She finds him in the kitchen, frying up some eggs (just how she likes it), the coffee already cooling on the countertop.

“Hey,” he brightens, upon noticing her. “Just give me another two minutes. It’s almost done.”

“You’re moving,” she says, testing the words out on her tongue, feeling her disbelief behind them seeping into her tone. “You’re— you’re moving?”

Bellamy has the sense to look a little guilty at that. “Yeah,” he says, quiet, shooting her a rueful smile. “I am. I wanted to tell you the minute you got here, but I still have some details to iron out first, so.”

“But,” she scrambles for the words, something eloquent, something  _ good.  _ Comes up short. “Why?”

He plates up the eggs, the sun from the window turning his skin gold, highlighting the planes of his face. Then, with a sigh, he goes, “Octavia’s gone, you know? And Miller’s moving to be with his boyfriend too. I just don’t have anything keeping me here anymore.”

Then he turns to look at her, wetting his lips, clearly nervous. “And there’s just somewhere else I rather be. Someone whom I  _ want  _ to be with, all the fucking time.”

She releases a gurgle of laughter, a little hysterical to her own ears. “That’s— that’s me, right? You’re moving to where I am, you’re, you’re—”

The edges of his lips quirk up into a mischievous smirk. “Nah. I’m going there for your friend, Wells? I hear he’s an  _ excellent  _ cook.”

Laughing, she throws her arms around him, kissing wherever she could reach, teeth clacking together in their haste and noses bumping.

His exhale is a long, drawn-out one, right by her ear. “I’m going to need help apartment hunting though. Property websites are shit. And maybe you could draw me a map, mark out all the sights for me.”

She smacks at his chest girlishly, drops a quick kiss against his mouth. “You’re an idiot.”

“Oh yeah?” He challenges, grinning, twirling his finger around a loose curl by her cheek. “How so?”

“You don’t need a map.” She goes, linking her hands behind his neck, holding him close so she could breathe him in, feel his skin against hers. “You have me.”

His breath hitches at that. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She tells him, closing her eyes, resting her cheek against his chest, the steady thrum of it and his warmth encircling her; a reminder of where she is, who she’s  _ with. _ “Every step of the way, Bellamy.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments, kudos and photos of bob morley's arms fuel me as a ff writer, so you know. Don't be shy! Also, find me on tumblr here: [trash can](http://prosciuttoe.tumblr.com/)


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